


Frostbite

by Basingstoke



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-04
Updated: 2000-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:32:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thanks to jacquez and Mama Deb for beta duties.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Frostbite

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to jacquez and Mama Deb for beta duties.

It was very cold. There was snow all around. He was fairly certain they were still in Canada.

 

 

"Methos, are we still in Canada?" he asked.

 

 

"I think so." Methos' voice echoed back from the mouth of the cave.

 

 

"I didn't see much," Duncan managed, and then he ran out of breath.

 

 

"I'm getting my strength back. I'll pull you out soon."

 

 

"Thanks," he gasped, and laid his forehead back down on his calf. His back didn't hurt at the moment--small mercy. He knew it would hurt like hell when it healed.

 

 

"All right, I'm coming back." Duncan could hear Methos picking his way through the ice cave. Quickenings had caused the cavern roof and walls to subside, so it wasn't nearly as easy a job getting in as it had been.

 

 

"Can you see anything?" Methos asked.

 

 

"No. It's all dark."

 

 

"Right. There's a fall of white ice. I think you're under it. I'll dig you out."

 

 

"Thanks." He could hear the shovel working. It sounded like the cold barrier around him was mostly hard-packed snow, almost ice.

 

 

"Well, what did you expect exactly, that I would just leave you? I may be a ruthless bastard but I do know what friendship is. Gathering or no Gathering."

 

 

"I know, Methos."

 

 

"And you are as annoying as any *eight* men but you're still my best friend this millennium." The sharp edge of the shovel poked through the snow and jabbed him in the side. "Is that you, MacLeod?"

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

"Good. This'll be easy." The digging resumed more carefully. The pressure on his back eased as the snow broke away.

 

 

"What's--" He caught his breath. "--gotten into you?" Methos never talked about their friendship. He simply lived it.

 

 

"Joe's dead. Amanda's dead. I've taken eighteen Quickenings in the past week. I'm at the end of my fucking tether and I want to tell my best friend that I love him. Is that so odd?" The shovel broke through the hard snow again, just missing Duncan's face. The snow broke away and Duncan took a deep breath of frigid air.

 

 

"Love you too, Methos," he gasped.

 

 

Mittens brushed over his face. His eyes were frozen shut. "You look awful, Highlander. Let me get you out of here."

 

 

He felt Methos dig the rest of the snow from around him. He breathed deeply, feeling his lungs expand for the first time in days. The air smelled of ozone, melted plastic and burnt flesh.

 

 

"How many are outside?"

 

 

"I counted eleven bodies and added one."

 

 

"Who was he?"

 

 

"Ah--nobody you've run into before, I think. I met him a few thousand years ago. He called himself Ezra then; we had a few words and went on our way. The urge to fight wasn't strong then."

 

 

"No."

 

 

"It was already building when you were a weanling, pup. You never saw the really peaceful times." Methos brushed him off. His touch felt distant, as if he were doing it through twenty layers of clothes rather than just one. "Had you stashed back here like a canape, didn't he?"

 

 

"I fell off a cliff a little while back when we were fighting. That's when my spine snapped. He was going to take my head, but we had company, so he stashed me on his sled and headed up here. It's been so cold I never had the chance to heal."

 

 

Methos ran gentle hands over his back. "I'm going to haul you out of here. Does it hurt?"

 

 

"No. Go ahead."

 

 

Methos picked him up as if he were nothing and carried him through the shattered cave. Light crept into his closed eyelids. "What day is it?"

 

 

"Fourteenth of October."

 

 

"Is there anyone else left?"

 

 

"No." Methos set him down. "I'll make a fire. You need to thaw out; you're stiff as a board."

 

 

Duncan raised his head. "If you killed me, you'd have the Prize."

 

 

"What on earth would I want to do that for? I don't even know what it is." Footsteps crunched through the snow.

 

 

"Don't you know any old legends that the rest of us forgot?" It always bothered him when Methos admitted to ignorance. It didn't seem right.

 

 

"No, Highlander. Believe it or not, I was not born at the beginning of time." That was the second time Methos called him "Highlander." Even more disquieting.

 

 

"Even the Bible says the Earth has six thousand years."

 

 

Methos laughed. Duncan heard wood crack and guessed it was the dogsled. Footsteps returned and wood clattered onto the snow.

 

 

"I could never kill you," Duncan said.

 

 

"That's comforting." Methos started splintering some boards, to judge from the sound.

 

 

"You've saved my life too many times. I owe you."

 

 

"Yes, I know."

 

 

"I meant it when I said I loved you."

 

 

"So did I."

 

 

Methos built a fire. He pulled Duncan close and draped himself over Duncan's frozen body, sharing the warmth.

 

 

Duncan's face stung. "I think my eyes are thawing."

 

 

Mitten-clad hands rubbed his face, then naked fingers pried at his eyes. Finally they popped open and he saw Methos, red-cheeked and blurry, hovering over him.

 

 

"Hello."

 

 

"Hello there." Methos smiled.

 

 

"Good to see you again."

 

 

"Likewise."

 

 

Duncan smiled. "You know, this reminds me of Venice."

 

 

"Why on Earth does it remind you of Venice?" Methos was half-laughing.

 

 

"I was trying to think of places that weren't anything like an ice cave."

 

 

"Ah. Venice. Yes, that'll do the trick." Methos shifted and rested his cheek on Duncan's, draping his body more comfortably.

 

 

"We got that bloody gondola because you were feeling reminiscent for the old days. And you stood up and started singing bawdy songs--"

 

 

"Bawdy songs are an old and respected pastime, MacLeod. I would think an antique dealer would respect that."

 

 

"Singing and rocking the bloody boat so that we both went over the side. I'm surprised we didn't bounce off that so-called water."

 

 

Duncan could feel Methos' mouth moving as he grinned. "I made it up to you later."

 

 

"Sure, but my scabbard has never recovered."

 

 

"As I recall there's nothing wrong with your scabbard."

 

 

"Was that innuendo?"

 

 

"Me? Never." Methos sat up and ran his hands over Duncan.

 

 

"I think that was."

 

 

Methos prodded him harder. "I think you're thawing out all over. I'll need to un-crack you so you heal straight."

 

 

Duncan nodded. "I still can't feel much. You might as well do it now."

 

 

Duncan felt the noise more than he heard it: a groaning crack like a glacier calving an iceberg. His upper body jerked upwards as Methos levered him apart. His arms were still un-responsive, one lolling limp while the other swung, frozen elbow bent, from the thawed shoulder.

 

 

"Methos, how long do you suppose until I'm healed? I'm not enjoying this a bit."

 

 

Methos sat back on his heels, puffing frozen steam. "I'm not enjoying this much either. You're a fright, Highlander."

 

 

"Very funny." Duncan was stuck nearly-vertical, and had to crane his neck uncomfortably to glare at Methos. "Do you think you can un-crack me the rest of the way?"

 

 

Methos rubbed his hands together. "Let Monsieur Methos see to your troubles, seigneur," he said in an outlandish French accent. "I shall soon have you feeling--how do you say? Right as raindrops!" He held up his hands and wiggled the fingers, grinning madly. Duncan had to smile in return, no matter how much it hurt.

 

 

"You're mad," Duncan said, huffing a bit because he didn't have the breath to laugh.

 

 

"Isn't everyone?" Methos braced his hands on Duncan's chest and thigh again. "Ready?"

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

This time it was more of a grating, scraping sound. It seemed like it should hurt, but it didn't. Once Duncan was vertical, Methos shifted to kneel on his thighs and shoved his torso gently down onto the snow.

 

 

"There you are."

 

 

"Thanks." Duncan looked at the sky, mottled with confused grey stormclouds. "Do you suppose we changed the climate?"

 

 

"It's possible. If the Arctic warms a degree or two, then a bunch of glaciers melt, the Arctic Ocean releases a lot of cold water into the Atlantic, the Gulf Stream shifts and Europe sees another Ice Age." Methos sat by Duncan's head and pulled Duncan's upper body onto his lap. He stroked Duncan's cheeks. "Feel all right?"

 

 

Duncan could see only Methos' profile shadowed against the sky. "Sure. Never been better. Are you serious about the weather?"

 

 

"Quite. You know I like my little ironies, MacLeod. An ice age derived from global warming is just the thing I like to contemplate on a long summer night." Methos raised his head, disappearing from Duncan's view. "You know, there was an earnest young Watcher who suggested that the Little Ice Age was caused by the dense concentration of Quickenings during the Crusades."

 

 

"Do you believe that?"

 

 

"No. The weather patterns are wrong."

 

 

"Do you like to talk about things you don't believe in?"

 

 

"Hush. Get some rest." Methos stroked Duncan's forehead.

 

 

Duncan closed his eyes, relaxing into Methos' lap. He felt almost warm like this.

 

 

He wasn't quite sure how much time had elapsed when Methos spoke again. "It feels like Rome falling all over again. It's sad, really."

 

 

"I didn't think you would care."

 

 

"I'm always a little melancholy when great cultures die. This time doubly so, since it was my own. You were born in wartime; you never knew the peace. We used to meet and trade stories like the warriors in Valhalla." He fell silent, covering Duncan's forehead with his palm. "We used to be a society, Highlander. But that's been dead for a long time. I can't help mourning it."

 

 

"I wish I had seen it."

 

 

"You wouldn't be the same kind of man. Heroes shine brightest in difficult times."

 

 

"Tell me about it? Please?"

 

 

Methos' shadow wavered and Duncan realized he was shaking his head. "I can't."

 

 

"Please. Tell me a story." Duncan tried moving his arms and found, much to his pleasure, that they responded. He managed to bend them both onto his chest, and Methos leaned over him to cover Duncan's hands with his own.

 

 

Methos pulled Duncan's crossed hands up to rest on the opposite shoulders and sighed deeply. "Had to say please, didn't you. I could never resist a charmer. What kind of story do you want to hear?"

 

 

"A true one."

 

 

Methos looked down at him, smiling. "A true story. A story of truth. I can do that. Let me think it over."

 

 

He stroked Duncan's face softly, gazing into the fire. "All right. A story of truth. Are you ready?"

 

 

"Of course."

 

 

"A long time ago in a place far, far away--"

 

 

Duncan laughed.

 

 

"Do you want a story or not?"

 

 

"Oh, do keep going."

 

 

"There lived a man. Not a terribly young man as mortals reckoned it, but not terribly old as immortals reckoned it. He had a farm, and a wife, and his wife had three children that were not the man's, but there was love all the same. They were happy."

 

 

"Is this a story about you and your sixty-eight wives?"

 

 

"Hush. Now, one day the man went out hunting for game to feed his family, and when he returned he found that his farm was burning and his family had all been killed."

 

 

"Oh dear," Duncan murmured.

 

 

"This wasn't unusual in those days, not that it hurt any less for being common. The man mourned and wept and beat the ground, but in the end his family was still dead." Methos stopped and squeezed Duncan's hands.

 

 

"I'm listening."

 

 

"I love a captive audience." Methos twined his fingers with Duncan's. "The man went to visit his teacher and told him: 'o my teacher, my family is murdered and I have no-one to love.' And his teacher replied: 'humans are dangerous to love; love the animals instead;' for the teacher had his own scars and didn't trust anyone."

 

 

The fire popped. Methos continued. "So the man caught a horse and tamed a dog and wandered the countryside, looking for meaning. In time his horse foaled and his dog had pups so the man had a great deal of company, but he still had an aching place inside him where his family once was.

 

 

"So the man went to visit his teacher once again. 'O teacher,' he said, 'I have animals to love but it isn't enough. I must have revenge.' And his teacher looked upon him and said: 'I will help you get your revenge.'

 

 

"The teacher and the student joined with another teacher and student who also had their great vengeance to take, and together they rode against the tribes that had hurt them. But much time had passed and the tribes had multiplied, so the four men rode further and longer in pursuit of the ones who had hurt them; and the years passed, and the world grew around them, and one day the student turned to the teacher and said: 'o my teacher, we have become raiders ourselves.' And the teacher looked at the student and said: 'of course we are.'"

 

 

"And they looked from pig to man, and man to pig, and there was no difference," Duncan said.

 

 

"Precisely. Do you want to hear the rest?"

 

 

"Who was the teacher and who was the student?" Duncan asked. Methos merely smiled and leaned over to kiss him upside down.

 

 

A tingle ran through him, down his spine and to the tips of his fingers and toes. "Methos, you've still--" Still got it, he wanted to say, but then a river of fire ran down his spine and his limbs twitched. It burned--it *hurt*--it was agony--he could feel his nerves realigning and melding, flashing into life with quasar bursts of bright pain. Tremors ran through his body and he arched upwards.

 

 

"Oh God--Methos!" He convulsed, bashing his head into Methos' lap. His hands scrabbled at the snow as his fingers burned into life; his feet kicked at the air.

 

 

"MacLeod! Ride it out! I've got you, I'm here!"

 

 

He rolled over, curling into a ball. He had control again but Jesus it hurt--he jumped to his feet, pacing furiously, wrapping his arms around himself as his abused flesh grew alive enough to feel again.

 

 

Methos scrambled to his feet. And--how could have not have noticed? Methos shone in the twilight, he was on fire, his Quickening was so bright. So much power just standing there; it was intoxicating as brandywine.

 

 

He scooped up a sword--did he recognize the frozen body?--it didn't matter--and he advanced, raising it over his head with berserker strength, swinging it with pain-driven determination. He knew down to his core there could be only one--

 

 

"MacLeod!"

 

 

That was all before the mist rose.

 

 

The Quickening lifted him from the ground. He spun in a hurricane of blurred memories. He crackled with energy, drawing the stormclouds together again, throwing off five thousand years of life in forks of lightning.

 

 

Then it was over, and he landed on his hands and knees in the pockmarked snow.

 

 

There was the body, its head and one hand several feet away. Methos had raised his hand in a defensive move.

 

 

He hadn't meant to do that. He hadn't--he--

 

 

"Oh, God," he whispered.

 

 

The fire had blown out in the Quickening storm. Night had drawn its curtain. The tears froze before they hit the ground.

 

 

"You didn't finish the story," he shouted hoarsely at Methos' head.

 

## end.


End file.
